The way we were
by geekchic79
Summary: An older Ernst Robel reflects on the year he turned fifteen


Two years ago today everything was perfect. We were sat on the window seat by my bed; another glorious late summer day was drawing to a close. Our legs entwined, we were pouring over another of your dusty books, _"A House of Pomegranates."_ The title seemed odd to me, I wasn't altogether sure what pomegranates were. But your shock of now messy blonde hair was inches from the page and you were bighting your lip the way you always do when you concentrate. So I watched. Entangling our bodies a little further. We'd walked slowly home from school, dragging our satchels on the ground, swaggering on the uninhibited promise of our youth.

"So," you turn to me smiling, cutting the pretence of our goodbyes short as we stand at the path leading up to my gate, "my house or yours tonight?"

I remember now it's Friday, and we have the whole weekend ahead of us. "Mine?" I suggest, "My parents are going out." I blush a little and lower my eyes as a wicked grin spreads across your face.

"I was hoping you'd say something like that."

I laugh; you reach inside your brown leather school bag, rummaging for something beneath the mess of school books and secret notes and homework. "I saw this and thought of you," you beam holding out a wilting peach blossom.

"The symbol of eternal love" I muse, amused.

"Exactly," you squeeze my hand, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I turn the blossom over in my hands, feeling the softness of the sunset petal against my warm skin.

You hitch your bag back up onto your shoulder, glancing quickly around you plant a quick, reckless kiss on my cheek. I close my eyes and smile. I loved these long walks home from school, and the nights that always followed.

"See you tonight!" you call over your shoulder as you carry on down the lane.

Even though I know I'll see you in a few hours, around seven, the same as every Friday, I glance back over my shoulder and catch you doing the same. I think I go straight up to my room, and work through my Latin exercises my mind all the time on what's going to happen later, this magnificent floating feeling swelling on my chest.

I rush through supper and wait with a book in the lounge until I hear your knock at the door. You politely greet both of my parents and we rapidly retreat upstairs to my room.

Your kisses feel softer, sweeter than before. Your lips connect uncertainly with mine, I smile a little, "What's got in to you?"

You pull pack a little, one arm either side of my hips as we lean back against my bedroom door, blocking it to avoid any unwanted interruptions. "I don't know…" you trail off, "I just…"

I peck you lightly on the nose, gazing mischievously up into your azure eyes, "Hanschen Rillow lost for words, I think this is probably the first time in history."

"Don't sound so shocked." You pout, bringing our lips together again.

"I'm not," I retort. Although I've found that, since I've known you, life has been a series of shocks. Not all of them unpleasant.

"Ernst?" your voice has changed again, "I love you."

You bring our heads closer so our noses are just touching, "I love you too" I say simply. You nod, breathing out a great sigh of relief and lean back beside me against the door. I lightly stroke your chest because we both know how much the last few seconds meant.

"And even when we're older," you continue, "we'll move away from here, we'll live together in the city. No one has to know!" you're getting carried away and I am too. Surely it'll never work, people we'll ask questions. Your father will want a dowry; he's going to have found your bride before the year is out. But I wont let myself listen.

"We can say we're brothers, or bachelors," I expand, your eyes light up as you turn to face me.

"I'll never marry. I promise, I promise, I promise. Even if they try and force me, I'll run away."

I plant a soft kiss on the crook of your neck; instinctively you nuzzle into my shoulder. I love seeing you like this, away from the cold façade that's erected for everyone at school, and church, even your own family. That secret sparkle in your eyes is only for me. I know it's wrong, but I love that.

"Promise?" I whisper.

"I promise."

And I wish that I could stop the story there. That I could remain frozen, a single entity in that tiny, perfect, irreplaceable speck of time. But things change, people let you down. You can't have _everything_, you can't have everyone that you want. I feel angry, but then I am always angry. Sad. But I am always sad. Two years is a lifetime. And life is cruel. It's Valentines Day 1895 and I'm sitting on my window seat still trying to finish the copy of _"A House of Pomegranates." _That your wife so kindly sent me.


End file.
